


Seasons

by terryh_nyan



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Killing Game (Dangan Ronpa), Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-26 09:30:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14997926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryh_nyan/pseuds/terryh_nyan
Summary: 01. If someone asked him to describe his relationship with Ouma, Saihara thinks he’d just draw an inverted question mark and leave it at that. (Summer ~ Beach)02. It’s not every day they get to do this – pretending to be someone else in a strange city on the other side of the world. (Winter ~ Carnival)





	1. Oceanside

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to our Panta child!
> 
> This is going to be a small collection of short oneshots set in what I like to call "the Roomie AU".
> 
> I've only written two out of I don't know how many this is going to be. I was thinking three or four, but maybe I'll have some cute ideas I want to add to the mix every now and then, so I'll leave it open and leave myself with a final chapter ready for when I inevitably throw in the towel like with literally every project because what is even commitment--
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented "Ultimo"! I was gonna answer you all one by one because honestly I appreciate comments so much it's not even healthy, but then I put it off for some reason, and then it just seemed weird to pop up in your inbox weeks later so I just. Kinda. Yeah.
> 
> I'm going to experiment a little with these oneshots, style-wise. I know the first and second one are very, very different, and I have no idea what the others will end up being like.
> 
> So yeah, main idea is: what if Hope's Peak had this thing of deciding rooming arrangements at random for the first trip and then sticking with them?
> 
> It's for Ouma's birthday but it's basically just Saihara overcoming social anxiety and growing closer to his classmates and being blessed (cursed?) with one particular roomie. But honestly, I think Saihara all for himself is basically THE gift Ouma would want.
> 
> These have got to be the longest, most pointless notes ever so here goes:
> 
> Thanks for stopping by, hope you like it! And please forgive any mistakes that will probably be there, still not native although I try!
> 
> (Oh and also #SaioumaWeek ftw)

Saihara’s first high school trip is to the beach. It’s Hope’s Peak Academy’s idea of nurturing his students – a week-long vacation to a private island the school owned, designated to let them unwind and to lift the pressure of their daily research off their shoulders. Their homeroom teacher in particular is positive they’ll be back with twice the energy, an overwhelming drive to dive back into their work and, most of all, many _wonderful tales of_ _wuv and friendship_.

Saihara doesn’t know what to make of that last part. He glances around at the classmates he’s only known for two short months, and an anxious lump forms in his throat as he tugs the brim of his hat lower. He’s made friends, he thinks, but he still cannot say that he’s ready to be friends with everyone. Friendship doesn’t come as easily to Saihara as it does to, say, Akamatsu or Momota: they’re the social butterflies to his bedside lamp moth, he muses, finding the analogy both accurate and mildly depressing.

When Chabashira drags Akamatsu to a ‘girls-only beach house’ that she’s found and promptly colonized, however, it’s just him and Momota and the rest of the guys trying to decide on a collective activity for about five whole seconds before settling each into their own thing. Momota is engaged in an intense conversation with Hoshi, pestering him to play beach tennis with him later. Saihara chooses not to intrude; if he has to be truthful, Hoshi intimidates him a little, even if he’s never shown animosity of any kind towards Saihara or anyone else. In the shade of the trees, Shinguuji scribbles something on his notebook. He doesn’t seem to be seeking company – he rarely ever does – and Saihara has no reason to not respect that, even though it has resulted in the two of them having only ever exchanged morning greetings.

He can spy Amami gathering a few supplies in his backpack and heading to the green side of the island. He’s friendly enough with Amami, he thinks, but then again, Amami gives off that kind of relaxed vibe that makes him easy to befriend.

“Rude, Amami–chan, you’re ditching us!” pouts Ouma, rocking back on his heels. “I mean, I totally get why you’d wanna ditch Kiiboy, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” the robot bites back, scandalized, pointing his finger accusingly.

Kiibo was a puzzling presence, at first, he has to admit that. He’s only exchanged pleasantries with him so far – morning greetings, information regarding class, traded a few notes. He’d say he’s on good terms with him. Or, at least, on better terms than Ouma, who seems to only grin more broadly as the robot gets increasingly riled up by his taunts.

His relationship with Ouma is the polar opposite of the one he has with Kiibo. It feels like every conversation he has with Ouma takes place exactly one step outside of the boundaries of what would be considered ordinary. Two days ago, he came up to his desk and flat-out asked him if he thought pigeons had feelings.

When the other boy catches him staring, he perks up immediately, jumping up and down as he waves at him. Saihara only manages to give him back an embarrassed half-nod before turning away, tugging at his hat to hide his reddening cheeks. If someone asked him to describe his relationship with Ouma, Saihara thinks he’d just draw an inverted question mark and leave it at that.

“Aw, man, can’t remember the last time I’ve been to the beach like this. Hey, Saihara!” Momota snaps him out of his thoughts, voice overflowing with energy and excitement. Hoshi’s managed to shake him off, and is now eyeing Gonta curiously as he looks for bugs against the tree trunks and in the foliage. Gonta can give off an aura of intensity all of his own, but Saihara quickly figured that it has everything to do with his overwhelming physique and emotional investment in bugs, and little to do with his mild, almost childlike nature. He’s not sure he understands Gonta that much yet, but he’s certain the other boy considers him a friend.

“Let’s exercise in the sun! Then, once we’re sweating our eyes out, we can go for a swim. I guarantee it’ll be the most memorable swim of your life.”

He’s not thrilled at the sweating part at all, but he gladly agrees to the plan. Since his first day, Momota seemed to spy his unease and take it upon himself to give him a place in their new world order. Saihara thinks of him as a star, burning bright in the center of their odd little system and pulling everything and everyone into orbit.

So they start working out. Except Momota falls asleep two sets of sit-ups in, and Saihara finds the sun too inviting to do anything but follow suit. He lays there for a while, listening to the bustle around him – Gonta’s squeals of delight as he finds bug after bug, Kiibo’s indignant voice and words he cannot make out; Ouma’s signature laughter, claiming the name of ‘Kingdom of Robophobia’ for his newly-built sand castle, which he guesses is what Kiibo’s having problems with…

He only distantly remembers that he forgot to put on sunscreen before dozing off under the tropical sun.

***

When he blinks awake, the sun is sinking over the horizon, and his limbs feel strangely immobilized.

Through the haze of sleep, he thinks he hears a voice.

“This year, we lost our dear classmate, Saihara–chan.”

“Uh…” Saihara shakes his hat off his face and glances up. Ouma’s kneeling figure towers over him, a single tear running down his cheek as he sniffles and joins his hands in prayer by his side. If that sight wasn’t enough to make him question his state of wakefulness, his doubts increase tenfold when he hears a loud sobbing coming from behind Ouma. They’re full-body, ugly sobs, and he spies Gonta a few steps back, his hands joined in prayer and his forearms occasionally rubbing at his eyes from under his glasses.

He glances down, and realizes he’s entirely covered in sand.

“Dude” Momota groans, rolling over in the sand. “He’s not dead. Quit telling people he’s dead. For God’s sake, Gonta, stop crying, he’s not dead!”

“I’m not” Saihara confirms. “At least I… don’t think so?”

“You’re not?!” Ouma and Gonta cry out in surprise at the same time. Momota rolls his eyes as the two throw their arms over his makeshift grave, one looking so relieved Saihara almost feels guilty for falling asleep, the other sobbing into his sandy form with what feels suspiciously like laughter.

“Sorry, man. I would’ve stopped him, but honestly? I thought I was dreaming, too.”

“Gonta’s so glad! Gonta’s so glad Saihara–kun isn’t dead!”

Still too dazed from his nap in the sun, all Saihara can do is wriggle his fingers free and throw a quizzical glance at Momota, who just shakes his head in resignation and mouths the word _just_ , followed by the gestural equivalent of an ellipsis.

“Uhm, Ouma–kun? Do you think I could maybe get up?”

“Totes!”

Ouma takes a step back, and Saihara starts shrugging the sand off his body. It’s weirdly compact, and he thinks he can read the words _in loving memory_ cracking on his chest. “You must be cooking in there anyway. Hey, I know! How ‘bout a swim?”

Part of him dreads the invitation, especially because it came from Ouma, and Saihara has to wonder whether his classmate’s got another prank planned out for him already. Another part of him, however, is sweating bullets. He must admit that swimming sounds like a particularly good idea right now.

Momota scowls as he rises to his feet. “Like hell we’re gonna fall for that. _You_ can swim back to the mainland or whatever; _w_ _e_ are going to put on some after-sun lotion and pray we don’t look like lobsters come tomorrow.” He winces as he moves, his skin already looking far redder than it should. “And _then_ we’re going swimming, ‘cause it’s like a freaking volcano around here. Sounds like a plan?” he adds, softer, looking at Saihara, who nods and begins to stand up, feeling like the new and improved version of the sandman.

“No fair” Ouma pouts. “I spent the whole afternoon putting sunscreen on you!”

“Yeah, in the shape of little stars and unicorns, and a tiny heart on my face like I’m freaking _Marina and The Diamonds_.”

Saihara can’t help but take a longer, more thorough glance at Momota and muffle his laughter when he spots the drawings on his skin.

“They, uh… they kinda suit you.”

“Man, not you too!”

“See?” Ouma says, pleased with himself. “Saihara–chan’s been back from the dead for five seconds and he’s still got better taste than you.”

They make their way back to the hotel after reassuring Gonta twice over that he isn’t, in fact, dead. When Saihara looks back for a second, his eyes meet with Ouma’s, who beams at him and waves again, childlike enthusiasm all over his face. “See you later, roomie!”

He’d ask what he means by that, but he’s distracted by Angie passing them by and going “Hi, Shuichi! Thought you were with Atua!”

“Man,” says Momota, covering himself with lotion and sighing with relief at the cool sensation. “We really are going to look like lobsters tomorrow.”

“I don’t know about that” Saihara ponders, poking tentatively at his skin. “I don’t feel like I got sunburned at all.”

Later that evening, Toujou informs them as class rep that they drew lots in the afternoon for the rooming pair-up, and Ouma’s words finally make sense.

“Dude” Momota says, dumbstruck. “You know you’re gonna wake up covered in crabs, don’t you?”

Saihara just shakes his head. “At this point, I’d be surprised if I didn’t.”


	2. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 02\. It’s not every day they get to do this – pretending to be someone else in a strange city on the other side of the world. (Winter ~ Carnival)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Experimental chapter ahead! Also yeah, I'm peppering a little bit of Italy everywhere. "Write what you know" and all that, I guess?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented, bookmarked and left kudos on last chapter! I hope you like this one!

By the time the second school trip rolls around, it’s near the end of January in their second year, and Hope’s Peak scoops them all up in a plane to spend two days in Venice.

“Ouma–kun? Is everything okay in there?”

Saihara knocks once, twice, three times. He cracks open the door to the walk-in closet of their luxury hotel room and sees nobody.

The question of Ouma’s disappearance nags him as he gets changed into the carnival costume Shirogane made for him – she made one for each of them, whether they’d requested one or not – and uncertainly turns around time and time again in front of the mirror, gazing anxiously at the flashiness of his black and silver outfit. It comes with a modern-looking deerstalker, a pipe, and a traditional Venetian mask. Saihara’s torn between admiration and embarrassment as he steps out of his room and doesn’t lock the door.

Akamatsu looks stunning in her purple ball dress and matching mask. They make an odd couple as they walk the crowded streets of Venice, filled with music and colors and all kinds of smiles – painted on lips and masks just the same – and even get a few compliments thrown their way, fellow masqueraders pulling on their friends’ sleeves and mouthing _che belli!_ as they pass by. He never would’ve had the guts to walk with Akamatsu quite like this all those months before, squeezed between faceless tourists and locals and holding hands like otters in a current.

Venice is pebble gray, then orange-streaked, then powder blue, peppered with pink confetti and rainbow streamer strips and egg-shaped stains on the cobblestone roads that you have to step around and jump over like a game of hopscotch. The canals gleam back at them like pearly rows of teeth.

When Venice is tinted violet by the setting sun, Akamatsu seems to melt into the backdrop like a cardboard outline. The crowd grows, swallowing her whole, and Saihara loses sight of her just as the sun sinks below the horizon.

It’s the second disappearance of the day, and Saihara realizes with a jolt of surprise that he’s never really stopped thinking about the first one.

“Looking for someone?”

A boy in a white costume is perched on a short brick wall coasting the canal, back against the wall and one leg swinging idly over the water. He’s wearing a mask and a white cylinder hat, a white cape draped on his shoulders. The voice and language he speaks in give him away, and yet the atmosphere around him feels different somehow. Different enough that, had he stayed quiet, Saihara may not have recognized him at all.

“Too bad! I stole her away, and you’re not getting her back.”

Ouma jumps to his feet, standing over the canal and facing him. With the night sky as a backdrop, he looks like he could fly away at any moment.

“You… stole her?”

Ouma’s smile cuts his face in half. “Yup! I was just suuuper tired of sharing you for the day.” He boasts unwavering confidence while making a declaration that, to Saihara’s ears, is nonsense at best.

To his surprise, Saihara finds himself chuckling. It’s not every day they get to do this – pretending to be someone else in a strange city on the other side of the world. If Ouma wants to play, he’ll play along.

“So you’re a thief.”

Ouma’s grin widens. “I’m _the_ thief. I’ve stolen thrice from you today, and you’re only now noticing. I’d step up my game if I were you, Mr. Detective – don’t wanna find yourself out of a job and all.”

“Thrice?” Saihara ponders out loud.

Ouma nods. “That’s what a great Phantom Thief does. I took three things from you, and I’m afraid I can only return one. But only if you guess right.”

The gears in Saihara’s mind start turning. “If I took you at your word… one thing would be Akamatsu–san.”

“True. But any schmuck could’ve guessed that.” Ouma clicks his tongue, a playful tone to his voice as he urges him on: “C’mon, Saihara–chan. You can do better.”

The gears start turning faster. It’s not like him to get so worked up over anybody’s antics. And yet, Ouma seems to always find a way to make himself an exception to that rule, if only through devoting himself completely to the task of nagging him to death.

He’s quiet for a while, thinking and thinking, but Ouma doesn’t rush him. He gazes down at him instead, his figure dusted with moonlight and his face wrapped in darkness.

“In all the games we’ve played…” Saihara finds himself deducing out loud, “the answer was never where I expected it to be. You’ve stolen from me, and therefore I shouldn’t be able to see what was taken. But that would be the wrong assumption to make, wouldn’t it?” It gives him a strange rush, being able to break down the pattern of Ouma’s deception brick by brick. “I can’t really say what the second thing you stole was, but I’m fairly certain I know what the first one is.”

He can’t see Ouma’s eyes from behind the mask, but his silence tells him all he needs to know.

“You called me by my name before, even though we’re playing a game” Saihara continues, taking a step forward. “And if I’m me in this scenario, it stands to reason that you’d be you, too.” Another step forward. He’s close now – close enough to touch.

“And I haven’t seen you since this morning.”

Ouma doesn’t move a muscle as Saihara slowly lifts his hand, gloved fingers brushing against the edges of his mask. He’s feeling a little bolder than usual, heart thumping away with the thrill of deduction and inebriated by the crispy night air.

“So, Phantom Thief” he states, a finality to his words that melts away completely into the lighter, playful tone of the words that come next, “I think it’s time you gave me my roommate back.”

He takes the mask between his fingers and, smiling despite himself, he pulls it all the way down to Ouma’s chin.

He’s taken aback by the expression on Ouma’s face. It only lasts a split second – the flush on his cheeks melting away like a reflection on water, his starstruck eyes sparkling only until he blinks, his parted mouth slipping back into a comfortable smile in the span of one breath. For a moment, the strange thought crosses Saihara’s mind that, perhaps, he’s taken off one mask too many.

But Ouma’s cheeky grin is back faster than Saihara’s mind can process what he saw as anything more than a trick of the shadows, and Ouma claims the center stage back for himself by flinging his arms around his neck and tackling him to the ground.

“I knew you missed me, Saihara–chan!”

“Ah, Ouma–kun, stop, we’re going to–”

They crumble in a heap on the cobblestone road. Saihara blinks, face to face with the moon. It’s a thin, amused curve, and the pitch black sky around it looks like an eyeless mask.

Ouma burrows into his chest like a content cat, mumbling nonsense about beloveds and having felt so lonely he could’ve died. Saihara sighs, sparing one last thought for the sky and its mask. It’s sharp, and beautiful, and impossible to read.

***

“By the way” Saihara munches around a frittella. “What was the other thing?”

“Hm?” Ouma’s cheeks look like a hamster’s. “Dhe whaf?”

“The other thing you stole.”

He gulps down what looks like a whole frittella before replying: “Tell you what, let’s trade. I’ll reveal you your secret, if you reveal mine.”

Saihara hands him the bag of frittelle he’s clearly trying to shove his hands into, blinking in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

With his cylinder hat in his arms and the paper bag stuffed inside it, Ouma quips: “Isn’t there a teensy question you’ve been trying to answer the whole day?”

Saihara puts a hand under his chin. “I… have been thinking about it. What you did looked like a textbook locked room mystery, to be honest.”

Ouma bites into another fried bun, powdering himself with sugar all over. There’s a cream puff on the tip of his nose, and he actually attempts to lick it away before giving up and wiping at it with the expensive-looking sleeve of Shirogane’s costume. “But here I am.”

“Here you are” Saihara exhales. “And I think that maybe I figured out how.”

Ouma’s eyes are sparkling with excitement when Saihara turns to meet them. He didn’t have a problem holding his classmate’s gaze before, by the canal, but now he finds himself quickly looking away.

“There were no windows in the closet, naturally” Saihara begins, voice uncertain. “And you couldn’t have sneaked out, because I was right out front. That leaves us with two options.”

“And what would those be?” Ouma asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Well, first– there might be a secret passage connecting the closet to the bathroom. The hotel’s centuries old and it wouldn’t be too ridiculous to hypothesize the existence of hidden doors connecting one space to another.” It’s rare for Ouma to stay silent for so long, listening intently, without interrupting even once. Saihara doesn’t know what to make of it. “But I checked the bathroom, too. It was empty, and the window was closed.”

“So what’s the second option?”

“The second option” Saihara starts, choosing his words carefully, as if he were unraveling a case back home, “is that you never left at all.”

When he turns to look back at Ouma, he sees a look of pure joy. “Eh. Don’t expect a trophy or anything” he says, offering him a bun, which Saihara takes even though they’re too sweet and make his stomach burn. “Ah, but I didn’t peg you for a liar, Saihara–chan.”

“Come again?”

And Ouma’s smile changes into something darker, more mysterious. “After all, never have I ever seen Saihara–chan forget to lock the door.”

Saihara gulps.

“ _Aaaaand_ you didn’t change in the closet. I mean, I totally would’ve kept my eyes closed if you did!” he winks shamelessly. A wave of pink and red creeps up Saihara’s cheeks, which Ouma seems to enjoy with all his heart before snaking back into an off-putting grin. “But you didn’t.”

It’s almost as if their roles reversed. Ouma turns to him with a piercing gaze as he puts the final piece of the puzzle into place. “I wonder what that means. Maybe that… you knew, even before you left.”

“I…” Saihara begins, a hand to his chin. “I had a hunch, nothing more. I did it without thinking, and only processed it later. As I kept going over it in my head, I got more and more convinced I must’ve been right.”

A second passes. Two. Ten. Then Ouma snickers under his breath, and all the tension melts away like butter on popcorn. “Detective instincts, huh? Now that’s not so boring.”

“Thanks?” Saihara says, quizzically. “Even though… I still can’t understand why you would do that. Planning an escape, I mean.”

Ouma munches on a bun, saying nothing for a few seconds. Then, “It’s obvious, though, isn’t it?”

That leaves Saihara blinking, almost dropping his bun.

Ouma’s tone is strangely neutral when he speaks again. Saihara turns to look, and finds that his expression matches.

“I knew you’d think about it, over and over. You’re a detective, Saihara–chan; detecting things is what you do. And I thought” he continues, and his voice rises back to its usual childlike notes again as Ouma crosses his arms behind his head and grins, “ _now Saihara–chan’s thoughts are mine for the day!_ ”

“Wait” Saihara stammers. “Is _that_ what you stole?”

Ouma’s grin gets wider. “Aw, pity. I can’t hide anything from you after all. Oh, well!” he balls up the oily paper bag and three-point-shoots it into a trashcan. “At least I got to hang out with you for the whole day. In your mind, that is.”

Saihara’s speechless. Every time, he thinks he understands. And, every time, Ouma manages to drop bombshell after bombshell of weirdness into his lap acting like it’s just another Tuesday.

“And with Akamatsu–chan, too, I guess.”

As if on cue, Saihara’s mobile vibrates in his pocket. It’s Akamatsu. He jumps, realizing he’d meant to text her as soon as they got separated, but forgot. Guilt prickles at his chest. Apparently she didn’t have any data, but she’s back at the hotel now.

Ouma leans over with no discretion whatsoever. “Speak of the devil! Shall we head back to our love nest?”

“I think you mean our room.”

“Didn’t you know, Saihara–chan? _Room_ and _love nest_ are the same word in Italian.”

“That… sounds like a lie.”

And, after almost a year of hanging out with him, Saihara can no longer say it’s unexpected when he replies:

“Yup! That was totally a lie.”

Maybe he is getting to know him better, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frittelle are amazing let no one tell you otherwise


End file.
